


Born Slippy

by dracoladon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Clubbing, Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Lingerie, M/M, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Top Harry Potter, and harry is obsessed, look. draco is wearing knickers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoladon/pseuds/dracoladon
Summary: Harry finds that it's less 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor' and more 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, decide Malfoy's quite fit, actually, and decent company after your friends traitorous abandonment, floor.' With Malfoy lying next to you.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 63
Kudos: 611





	Born Slippy

**Author's Note:**

> cw: draco uses the f slur once (in relation to himself) and there’s very brief discussion of homophobia  
> all the scene dividers are songs — here's the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1jEXAyE7ZqHb1Ush1XPWp7). if you’re going to listen to even one, listen to the titular born slippy. 

_i. the sound of violence_

“It’s not even twelve yet!”

“Harry. Ron is on the _floor_.”

“He’s fine. You’re good down there, aren’t you mate?”

“Irrefut—irrefoot— yeah.”

Harry pats Ron’s head. “See?”

“No.”

Harry supposes it’s his own fault for bringing his aggressively heterosexual friends to a gay club. Hermione had worn her sensible shoes. And although it was Ron who’d drunkenly enthused ‘ _an adventure! Onward!_ ’ when Harry suggested Déshabillé, his eyes _had_ almost bugged out of his head when he saw that bloke in the leather harness two seconds after making it through the door. Poor Ron. All red flags. 

He says, “Whatever. Go. Just know I don’t like you, and you’re really shit at clubbing.”

“And you’re hopeless at knowing when to stop,” Hermione says (she doesn’t like to swear, unless it’s in relation to the Ministry and their ‘piss-weak stance on Elvish welfare’). 

It’s not often Harry remembers she’s not actually his primary carer and he doesn’t actually have to do what she says, but when he does, it’s usually because he’s got some liquid courage in him. (Or liquid stupidity. His own instincts when it comes to things like drinking and studying and spending half his Galleons on a new racing broom even though he plays Quidditch roughly oh-point-five times a month are rarely more enlightened than Hermione’s advice.) 

“This is how it’s _supposed to go_ , Hermione. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor?”

“It wouldn’t rhyme if it wasn’t true,” Ron puts in. 

“Hush, you,” Hermione says. “Harry, get Ron off the floor.” 

Hermione pays the tab at the bar, and Ron leans heavily on Harry’s shoulder. Until he decides to pull Harry into his chest and bury his chin in his hair. 

“D’you remember that time I saved you from a lake?” Ron mumbles. 

Um. “‘Course mate,” Harry says. 

“And you saved me from a lake. In the Trournament. Triwizard Tournament.”

“I suppose that just leaves Hermione then,” Harry says. 

“Harry,” says Ron gravely, pulling Harry back to stare at him in earnest. “Don’t push my foncey in a lake.”

This is brilliant. Harry loves drunk Ron. “Foncey?”

“Fioncey. Fuck you,” says Drunk Ron. And then, instead of pulling Harry back into his chest, he drops him altogether and starts gesturing wildly towards the bar. 

“What?”

“Mate,” says Ron, grinning broadly, “that’s Malfoy! Hey, ferret face! Harry, Malfoy.”

Bollocks. Drunk Ron is (what was it he said? Irrefootably?) correct. At the far end of the bar, a line of shots in front of him and a dark-haired bloke behind, is Malfoy. 

“It’s Draco Malfoy, from school.”

“Yes, thanks Ron."

“Do you think he can hear me?”

“No.” Malfoy is rather preoccupied. Evidently the shots are part of a larger scheme which involves. Erm. Leaning back on bars (Malfoy) and slurping tequila from exposed navels (dark-haired bloke). 

“Is Harry okay?”

“He’s just seen Malfoy,” Ron says it with an and-we-all-know-what-that-means (which Harry absolutely doesn’t) kind of smile and a clap on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Draco Malfoy?” says Hermione. She’s tucking her purse back into her little beaded bag. 

“No,” says Harry. “Lucius, would you believe. Down by the bar, pouring tequila into his belly button.”

“Very funny.”

Harry mutters under his breath and kicks a nearby table leg. Which hurts. 

“Come on,” Hermione says to Ron. 

“I want to see this, Hermione,” he complains. 

“See _what_?” 

“You. And Malfoy. He’s coming this way.” Scratch that, Drunk Ron is an absolute menace. Harry wishes death upon him and his kin. 

Hermione’s eyes widen. “Let’s go, Ron.”

“You can’t leave me here with him!” Harry protests. 

“Ron. We’ll stop at the Kebab shop.”

Ron transfers his lanky slouch from Harry’s shoulder to Hermione’s. “Ciao, Harry.”

“Brutus's!” Harry calls after them. “Bruti!”

“Au Revoir!” Hermione calls back. 

And now his friends (or so they claim) are gone, and it’s just Harry leaning against a sticky table, and Draco Malfoy pushing his way through thronging bodies towards him. 

There’s not a whole lot of distance to cover, but it’s crowded, and Malfoy is frequently interrupted.

It’s not been long since Harry last saw him. Blaise Zabini is the proprietor of one of the only bars on Diagon that isn’t a) stuffy as hell, b) outrageously overcrowded _and_ overpriced, or c) a total shitehole. Malfoy is there a lot. He sits behind the bar when Blaise is working and reads. He sits at the bar when Pansy is working and chats. He sniffs and tosses his blond head when he sees Harry, and pretends he isn’t there.

Malfoy’s not pretending Harry isn’t here at present. At present, he’s shaking off suitor after suitor and doing some passive aggressive elbow choreography just to get to him.

Harry isn’t sure how he feels about this. Surely, if he really didn’t want to speak to Malfoy, he would’ve gapped the fuck out by now. He’s had ample time. 

It’s just. Malfoy's always been pretty. In a vapid, haughty kind of way, which doesn’t sound like a particularly good thing, but (unfortunately) is. Harry thinks it’s the aura of disdain as much as it’s the full lips and the long eyelashes and the fine bones of his face. Malfoy exudes fuck-off-you-peasant energy that both intimidates and entices.

Like one of those oil paintings with the perpetual tilt to their chin and narrowed lids, but painted in soft, gentle strokes so the skin looks smooth and the hair kind of gauzy and soft. No. Malfoy's probably more of a sculpture. Angular and carefully made. A marble one with one of those velvet ropes around it and a sign that says ‘ _no touching_ ’. That’s Malfoy. 

This is why Harry doesn’t drink tequila. Two shots with Ron and he’s comparing stupid idiot _arseholes_ to artworks of various medium. Fuck.

_Move, Harry. Leave._

But he’s drunk. He’s very gay. Malfoy is fit. He's clearly not the only one who thinks so. Just because Malfoy has historically been a colossal wank-off, doesn’t mean Harry is immune to all the blond-ness and chiseled-ness and long-ness walking towards him in the dusky, pulsing light of the club. He shouldn’t beat himself over it, right?— _Up_. Beat himself _up_ over it. Jesus christ. 

“Bonjour, Potter.”

Cunting shit. “Hullo Malfoy,” Harry says. 

Malfoy nudges into the space beside Harry. Hm. He’s wearing a pair of grey woolen trousers (if they weren’t so loose, they could have been the ones from his Hogwarts uniform. As it is, Harry can see pointy hip bones and pale abdomen and a slink of golden hair. So.) and a cherry red t-shirt. Which has David Bowie on it. And is very tight. Harry thinks he should probably say something like; do you own any clothes that are actually your size? Ferret bastard? (For good measure.)

Unfortunately, the only words that spring to mind as of right now are _tight_ and _smooth_ and, most unhelpfully, _want._

Erm, whatever that means. 

Malfoy wrinkles his nose, but leans on the sticky table all the same. “Where’ve Weasel and Granger run off to?” he says. “Quicky in the loos?” 

Harry scoffs. He left his half finished pint back at the bench where Ron and Hermione abandoned him, so he’s got nothing to do with his hands. “Thanks for that image. Call a cab so I can go outside and jump in front of it, would you?” 

Malfoy cocks his head. Harry almost chokes on his own spit. “What the fuck,” Malfoy says, “is a cab?” 

Harry snorts. “You’re actually ridiculous.” 

“T’was but a joke, Potter. I’ve gone home with enough Muggles to know what a taxi is.” 

And, of course, Harry knows Malfoy is gay. He’s at a gay bar. Harry’s just seen a man licking spirits from his abdomen. He reads the papers (or rather, Hermione reads the papers, and tells Harry the important bits.) He knows that the Wizarding public has been able to forgive their Saviour things they’ve never forgiven Malfoy for; his sexuality, his promiscuity. 

The articles— scratch that. _‘Article’_ implies some semblance of actual journalistic integrity, of which the Prophet has but a shred. _Tales_ of Harry’s coming out and subsequent queer escapades (a direct quote) are reported upon with a degree of cosseting. Not Malfoy’s. 

Harry is Wizarding Britain’s collective son, and they may not like that he’s gay — they may have desperately wanted him to marry a carbon copy of his own mother (which is really weird, when he thinks about it) and return to that tragic little house in Godric’s Hollow and pump out a litter of Gryffindor sproglets for them to fawn over — but they’ll accept it. They’ll indulge him. Because he’s Harry Potter. 

Not Malfoy. 

According to the Prophet, being a “wanton socialite” is just the next point on a long list of evils he’s committed (attempted headmaster-cide, being Marked, et cetera). Malfoy is “too effeminate”. Malfoy engages in “hideous debauchery”. Malfoy will do “anything/one to bring favour back to the family name”. 

They never actually use the word deviant, but it’s there in spirit. Despite the fact that Malfoy is, you know. A complete cock. Harry feels bad about that. It rankles. 

So yeah. Harry knows Malfoy is gay. 

However. Hearing Malfoy talk, in that stupid posh voice of his, about taking someone home, is something else altogether. 

“Do elaborate.” 

“You know,” says Malfoy, leaning closer, “they say sarcasm is the lowest form of humour.”

Harry doesn’t think it politic to tell Malfoy he wasn’t _really_ joking. And Harry is very politic these days. He clears his throat instead. 

“So, Potter,” says Malfoy, resting back on his elbows, popping sharp blades of slim shoulders under red fabric. “How is every little thing?”

“Fine,” says Harry. “And you?”

“Tickety boo.” 

“You’re here with someone?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “No.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows. Dark haired bloke has disappeared, but there’s still a slight slick of tequila below Malfoy’s belly button. Which Harry can see. And it makes him dizzy, which it probably shouldn’t — just like he’s not terribly unused to seeing Malfoy out and about, he’s not terribly unused to seeing him in a state of scant dress. 

At Blaise (not the person, the bar. Yeah. The Slytherin ego truly is a wonderful thing), Malfoy often wears button ups buttoned down to below the sternum, and trousers that sit low on his hips and tight on his bum. 

The thing is, Harry didn’t think he paid Malfoy’s outfits an awful lot of attention. More to that; any at all, but all of a sudden they flood his consciousness like photos from a catalogue. Malfoy perched at the bar in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Mark displayed. Malfoy making Pansy Parkinson laugh so hard she drops the glass she’s cleaning in tight black jeans and low slung checkered trousers (it's happened more than once). Malfoy looking pointedly away from Harry as he enters with Ron and Hermione, in a tailored Muggle suit; pants and boxy jacket with no shirt underneath. 

Malfoy smirks. He says, “A friend.”

Harry nods. “You did look awfully friendly.” 

“Glad to know you were paying attention, Potter,” says Malfoy. He catches the eye of one of the bartenders and gestures expansively. 

“You weren’t exactly discrete. And it’s not table service, you know.”

Malfoy does one of his little sniffs. “Speak for yourself.”

A man in black denim overalls with no shirt beneath deposits two drinks, salt rimmed and clear, on the table in front of Malfoy. 

“What the fuck?” says Harry. “How much time do you spend here?”

“Not much at all. I’m very busy. The life of a gentleman of leisure, and so on.”

Harry takes a sip of his drink. “Was that sarcasm?”

“Of course not, Potter.”

“Was _that_ sarcasm?”

“You’re a terrible conversationalist, I hope you know.” 

Harry looks down, and regrets it. He can see pale skin pulled taut over hip bones, and thinks how unfair that is. Because, really, if Malfoy’s going to be a prat, he could at least have the common decency to be an _ugly_ _one_. 

“You're here at your leisure, gentleman of leisure,” Harry says. Malfoy’s drink is nice and bitter and lemoney and strong. “Speaking of, what the fuck _are_ you doing here, Malfoy?”

Malfoy grins broadly. “I’m a shocking fag, Potter. Or don’t you read the papers?” 

“That’s not what I meant. And no, I don’t.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant, why are you talking to me?”

“I wouldn’t want to be impolite.”

Harry snorts. He doesn’t see much value in pointing out that Malfoy has ignored him literally every other time they’ve come across each other since his trial. (Except for when he flipped him off, once, but Harry rather thinks that does more for his case than Malfoy’s.) “‘Course not.”

Malfoy waves a hand. “I’m not utterly heartless, Potter. And you looked so lonely at the departure of wheels number one and two.”

When Hermione and Ron first got together a few years ago, that probably would’ve hit a little too sensitive of a nerve. But Harry’s made his peace with it now. More than. “Are you calling me a wheel?” he says. 

“I’m calling you a _third wheel_. Tell me, was it difficult for you when they decided to make things official? No more orgiastic Gryffindor fun once they went monogamous, I suppose.”

Harry does choke, this time. Malfoy looks pleased. 

“I’ve never fucked my best friends, if that’s what you're implying, you sick twist.”

“Are you sure? You were all in that tent together a very long time.”

Merlin. Hip bones aside, Malfoy is still utterly infuriating. Completely incensing, and—

“How do you know about the tent?” Harry says suddenly, with incredulous realisation.

“What?”

“Did you—did you _read Skeeter’s book_?” 

The Hunt (a fittingly stupid title, in Harry’s opinion) was published two years after the war. Quasi-biographical, but mostly centred around Harry, Ron and Hermione’s titular search for Horcruxes in that one long, horrible year. When it was published, the three of them bandied together all the wine they could find, settled down on Ron and Hermione’s living room floor, and read it aloud. For a “horridious cow with no moral compass” (quote Hermione), Skeeter’s account was surprisingly accurate.

No, Harry hadn’t blasted them out of Bellatrix’s vault in a paroxysm of wandless magic. Hermione didn’t discover the location of the fourth Horcrux by deciphering some Ancient Runes. But yeah, they camped in a tent in the Forest of Dean. Yeah, Ron destroyed the locket with the sword, and Hermione the cup with a Basilisk fang. 

Harry’s not sure how exactly Skeeter discovered some of the other, finer details, and he’s not sure he wants to. 

Malfoy’s frown clears into a purposefully bored expression. He glances over Harry’s shoulder. “Book?”

Oh. How brilliant. “You did, didn’t you?” Harry prods. “You read it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Malfoy. His cheeks are pink, but he’s looking at Harry now. “I know nothing of any book about your heroic exploits, and if I did, I wouldn’t go near it with a ten foot broomstick.”

Happily, “You read it." 

“Who’s Skeeter? I can’t even read. Fuck off.” 

Harry laughs openly. This is weird, so he laughs. Malfoy— _Malfoy_ —is attractive, Malfoy is here, and Malfoy is actually quite funny. In a way that would probably make Hermione anxious. 

“Less than ten minutes, and you’ve already wrangled mention of your tedious heroics. I shouldn’t expect any less, I suppose.” 

“I’m too drunk for that.”

“For what?”

Harry waves his hand in the air. “You. Your insults are too—” he waves his hand again.

“Subtle? Nuanced? Veiled? How about this; you’re a lower life form.” 

“That was brilliant,” Harry says. Malfoy smirks. 

_ii. got glint?_

When Malfoy wants something, he blinks. A stupid slow one with long golden eyelashes. It’s really quite effective. It’s also how Malfoy ends up sipping a twenty-two pound cocktail that Harry paid for. 

“Thanks ever so,” Malfoy says. 

“I think that drink cost half my vault,” says Harry. 

Malfoy hums around his straw. “Earning it back would hardly be strenuous, Potter.” Hm. Harry wishes Malfoy hadn’t asked for a straw. 

“Oh?” he says. “How so?” 

Malfoy hums again. “Off the top of my head, you could drop trou for the paps. That’d pay your bills for a year or two.” 

Harry tries his hardest not to splutter. “What?”

“I bet they’d pay a hundred-thousand Galleons at least,” Malfoy muses. “Two hundred, maybe. For the Chosen Cock.” 

Harry wishes Malfoy wouldn’t talk about his cock while drinking through a straw. Fuck. Drunk Harry is so very _crude_. 

“You’re very funny, Malfoy.”

“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I probably meant to say; you’re not funny, Malfoy.”

“How very dare you, Potter!” Malfoy protests. He leans closer in his scolding. 

“I’m not sure,” says Harry. 

“Tales of my hilarity are exalted across the land, I’ll have you know.” 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Harry says kindly. “You’ve been drinking.” 

“I can assure you, alcohol does not divest me of my wit.”

“It certainly doesn’t stop you from talking like a ponce.”

“How offensive. And in this cathedral of acceptance,” says Malfoy. He hasn’t moved back. There’s smudges around his eyes. Smoky black smudges behind his lashes, on the corners of his lids. They’re a little drippy, like he put on eyeliner two nights ago, passed out on the floor of a club, and hasn’t stopped to reapply since. 

But like. In a sexy way. 

It’s probably exactly what he was going for. 

“Shut up,” says Harry. He squints harder. Malfoy is wearing eyeliner, and something shiny on his cheekbones, and something glossy on his lips, and he’s draping. 

“Snap. Ten points to Gryffindor, for your skill in repartee.” Malfoy’s actually draping himself against the table, legs crossed and hips cocked and elbows splayed and head-on-palm. 

“Generous of you. I only got five for doing that troll in.” Harry’s brain has changed course. Less tight-smooth-want and more lips-soft-smokey-please. Which is equally unhelpful. 

“Not very efficiently. It’d destroyed half the dungeons by the time you witless little picknies got to it.”

Stop biting your lip. Stop cocking your hip like that. Why the fuck did you have to put _glitter_ on your _collar bones_.

“I was eleven, you fucking ingrate.”

“Fascinating witticisms _and_ brute strength. Is there anything you don’t have, Potter?”

“I’m sure you could come up with one or two.”

“You underestimate me. I’d wage fifty, at least. Starting with a hair brush.”

“My hair is _stubborn_.”

“So am I, and yet I don’t look like I’m perpetually walking perpetually backwards through a perpetual _hedge_.”

“Perpetual,” repeats Harry. “What a fun word. And that was harsh.”

Malfoy makes a little sound of satisfaction and sips his drink.

Harry frowns. “At least I’m not all coy —” he sweeps his hand about his head. “Coy.” 

“Are you trying to say coiffed?” says Malfoy.

“I think so,” says Harry.

Malfoy snorts. He says, “Idiot. And I'm not _coiffed_ , I'm _tousled_.”

“So am I, thanks,” says Harry. 

“Yes,” Malfoy agrees. “Tousled. Tousled by a herd of wild Hippogriffs.”

Harry smiles. “Hippogriffs,” he says. “Scary.”

Malfoy narrows his smokey eyes in a way that says get-that-shit-eating-grin-off-your-face-right-this-minute-you-twerp. When it doesn’t work at all, he sighs, and says, “I shan’t ever live that down.”

“No,” Harry agrees.

“Oh well. Terribly sorry about all that. Et cetera. I think I might’ve been a sociopath in my youth, don’t you?”

Harry waves a hand (how is it that it looks all elegant and aristocratic when Malfoy does it? When he does it, it feels kind of grotesquely jovial.) “It’s okay. He wasn’t actually executed, did you know? Buckbeak.”

“What?” 

“Hermione and I helped him escape. We went back in time. I saw myself almost die. It was actually quite fucked. In a fun way, I suppose.” 

Malfoy squints, then smiles. “Are you high? What’re you high on?” 

“I’m not high,” Harry insists, batting away Malfoy's hand where it came up to inspect his pupils. 

“Kay,” says Malfoy. 

“Nother drink?” Harry says, for something to say.

“Yes please, Potter. Court me harder.” 

“I’m not courting you,” Harry says. 

“Forgive me,” says Malfoy. “What would the plebian term be? Flirt?” 

“ _You’re_ flirting with _me_. You touched my hair.”

“While likening it to a bird’s nest or some such. But I admire your positivity. It’s very cute. Classic Gryffindor.”

“Says you. Snake. You’re a snake man.”

“Mm,” says Malfoy. He takes Harry’s hand, suddenly. His skin is warm. “Come on.”

“Where? I thought we were getting another drink.” Harry plants his feet when Malfoy tugs petulantly at his wrist. “Where?” 

“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy drawls. Harry doesn’t like it when he drawls. Or really does. Either way, it makes his skin feel several measures too tight. “Your virtue is safe with me. We’re just dancing.”

“I can’t dance.” 

“I'm sure you can’t.” 

“Can you?”

“Like a swan.”

_iii. erotica_

“I don’t think swans usually grind their arses quite so much,” says Harry. 

Malfoy has dragged him into the hot, pulsing center (ew) of the dance floor. There are a lot of bare limbs, and it smells overpoweringly like alcohol and salt, sweat, man. And then there’s Malfoy, with his hands on Harry’s on his waist, and his back against Harry’s chest, and his arse, well. Harry’s already said. 

Malfoy responds by pulling Harry’s arms tighter around him, rocking his hips enthusiastically and saying, “They do when they’re seeking a good hard shag.”

“Gross.”

“How immature,” Malfoy says, and tosses an arm back around Harry’s neck.

“Isn’t this a little counterproductive?” says Harry, and he’s quite proud of himself for getting out such a fucking long word without stumbling. He’s drunk, and Malfoy’s— _Malfoy’s_ —arse is glued to his pelvis. Harry really does get himself into the oddest little situations. 

Swivel. Malfoy drops his head back against Harry’s shoulder. “How so?”

“You want to pick up one of these blokes, right?”

His eyes are closed, the column of his pale throat exposed. “Another ten points.”

“Shut up. I’m just saying, isn’t it sending the wrong message?”

The hand still on Harry’s has moved from waist to hip, and the bone is poking into Harry’s palm. “Isn’t what?” 

“You. Grinding all over me like I’m your fucking broomstick.”

Malfoy opens his eyes and grins up at Harry. “What a lovely metaphor. I’m going to steal that. And for all your complaining, Potter, your cock is awfully hard.”

It is _not_ , Harry thinks. Only half. Mostly from the straw. Whatever. “Well. There’s a bloke staring at me over your shoulder. He's very fit. A real Adonis type, you know.”

“I’m surprised he can see you over my coif,” Malfoy says. 

“He’s looking through the coif. Your hair is basically translucent.” 

“Like falling snow.” 

“Like,” says Harry. Frost on a Quidditch pitch. Milky tea in his favourite cup. Clouds. New sheets. A window mantled in rain. “Diluted piss.”

Malfoy laughs, Harry feels it in his shoulders. “You’re a wordsmith, Potter. You paint an exquisite picture.”

He turns in Harry’s arms. He’s pressed against Harry’s chest. 

“Point him out to me,” Malfoy says. 

He's in a state of aristocratic disarray, and Harry didn’t know there was such a thing until now. His hair is all gold at the roots with sweat, and the shimmery stuff from his cheekbones is smeared across his nose. “Hm?”

“Adonis. Whither goest thou lover?” 

Whenever Malfoy speaks, Harry can smell mint and smoke and liquor on his breath. “Oh. He left.”

“How sad,” Malfoy says. He’s still lazily rocking to the beat in Harry’s arms. “An exquisite tragedy that shall be lauded alongside Shakespeare’s greats, I’m sure.” 

Harry would wonder if Draco had had anything to drink at all, if he hadn’t watched his pale throat work with each sip. “I think he might’ve been intimidated by the coif.”

“Perhaps,” says Malfoy. “Either that, or he saw your glasses.” 

Fuck, thinks Harry. Fucking Cunting Shit. All capitalised. Because Fuck.

“Potter?” says Malfoy. “Potter Potter Potter. I just insulted you, didn’t you hear?”

“Will you,” says Harry, and then, “Will you call me Harry?”

Malfoy stops rocking. He looks at Harry. His pupils are dilated. Silver thread stitched around black thickets. “Why?”

“Because. I want to call you Draco. And I like symmetry.” 

“When you say you want to call me Draco,” says Malfoy. “You mean you want to kiss me, no?”

Harry does mean that. He nods.

“Well. Yes,” Draco says. 

_iv. born slippy_

“You’re warm,” Harry notes, trying and failing to keep the incredulity from his voice. “And soft.”

“What did you think I was? Made of stone?” 

Technically marble. “Er. Kind of.”

“Idiot boy. Kiss me again.”

Harry does. Malfoy tastes bloody great, and his lips are soft and swollen and pliant. 

“Want you,” Harry says into the hem of Draco’s mouth. 

“Mm,” says Draco. “Want you, too.” 

It’s a Friday in July, and it’s past twelve now, surely, and Ron’s probably put away four kebabs at least, and Hermione will be reaching up to wipe his eyes when he reaches the inevitable sentimental-teary stage of his intoxication, and there’s a something with a heavy beat playing over the speakers in the club, and Harry is kissing Draco Malfoy.

Kissing. Kissing and touching. Feeling. Tasting. Now. 

Draco is as angular and sculpted as he looks, only softer. Soft under Harry’s lips, even at the jut of his jawline, and soft under the pads of Harry’s thumbs as they stroke the shallow dip of his spine. 

Draco feels good. Feels silky. Like silk. 

Harry says, “Silk,” into the plane between Draco’s neck and his ear, because that’s what he tastes — warm skin and the closely shorn hair of Draco’s nape. 

Draco says, “Hm?” And then snickers softly against Harry’s skin. 

“You feel good,” Harry expands. He wants to take Draco’s lips between his again, he wants to slide his hands firmly along the pale curve of his waist, wants to kiss and bite, wants to feel a delicate swell against his cock instead of the tight seam of his jeans. But he’s pathetic. And he can’t. 

Draco smells too good. Too much man and sweat and expensive shampoo. And Harry can’t seem to force himself from the crook of Draco’s neck, laving at the skin below his ear and hearing taught exhales and soft whines in his own. 

Until Draco says, “Enough,” managing to sound firm and breathless all at once. “Enough teasing, Potter. Come.”

Harry protests a little when Draco unfurls the elegant line of his body from his own. His hands feel heavy at his sides without warm, bare skin beneath them. “Is my virtue still garente—guaranteed?”

“No,” Draco says, the pretty flush on the back of his neck to Harry as he pulls him through pulsing music and writhing limbs and several spots slick with spilt drinks that Harry has to try his hardest not to trip on. 

A great, weathered arch has been cut from Déshabillé’s backmost stone wall. (Harry knows it filters out into what functions as a beer garden between the hours of eleven am and five. A courtyard filled with polished wood trestle tables and cordoned with velvet ropes — before the end of the night, it’ll be closed off completely by a rolling door of corrugated iron. Harry knows this not because he’s a particularly frequent patron, but only because he might’ve thought on one of his few previous visits, and in a spectacularly intoxicated state, that it would be a good idea to bet the bloke he’d been drinking with that he could slide under it as it closed. He was right. Only then, he was trapped in a deserted beer garden and had to scale the fence (he grazed his knee), stumble to a phone box (too drunk to Apparate, too far from any Wizarding establishment to Floo) and call Hermione to come fetch him (and she had, the angel).)

Draco stops beside it, the dance floor stretched out before them and the L-shaped bar curved around beside. In the dusky, deserted corner, air smelling like night and summer blowing in through the arch, Harry feels a little less like he’s drowning in sound and smell and feel, and a little more like he could form a coherent sentence if he tried hard enough. 

Draco ruins it by saying, in a thick, heady voice, “Your hands, Harry. Want them on me.”

The lights above them change from strobing white to deep, rolling blues and purples, slipping empyreal shadows back and across Draco’s face. Harry takes a deep breath. And dives back in. “My hands?”

“Mm,” Draco insists. He crooks a leg behind Harry’s knees, drags him forwards. Slings arms over his shoulders. “So fucking big. Can’t stop thinking about your hands on my neck. Wrapped around me.” 

Fuck. Oh, god. “Want that,” Harry manages. The tilt of Draco’s arms has dragged the hem of his t-shirt higher — out of the frantic press of bodies on the dance floor, Harry can see the skin he's felt. Red cotton and slouching grey wool skirting taught, slight muscles under pale, sweat slicked skin. God. Merlin. _Draco_. 

“This,” Harry says, pulling at the hem of Draco’s shirt, “‘s criminal.”

Draco pulls closer still, impossibly so, and presses the straight bridge of his nose against Harry’s. Harry thinks his glasses must be digging into Draco, and then wonders why exactly he’s thinking that when there're golden eyelashes kissing at his cheeks. 

“Oh?” says Draco. 

Draco asked for Harry’s hands. Harry puts them on his waist. Skims the band of expensive material he finds there. “So fucking small. Tight. With these trousers.”

Harry feels rather than sees Draco pout. It occurs to him, then, that they’re not kissing. Just pressing closer against each other until there’s no space or sound between them, and muttering. “What’s wrong with my trousers?” says Draco. 

“They’re very _low_.” Harry finds purchase on Draco’s hips, holding tight. Draco tips his head down, forehead sliding against Harry’s and groans. There’s a rustle of skin on fabric, and Draco is fumbling for Harry’s cock in the chink of purple light. He finds it, and strokes, and—

“Jesus fucking christ,” Harry moans into Draco’s forehead, gripping his hips tighter still. 

Draco palms him again through rough, well-worn denim. “You're very hard, Potter.” His voice is too hopelessly breathless to be taunting, but Harry knows that’s what he’s going for, anyway. 

“Harry. And shut up,” Harry advises. 

Draco pulls himself back, looking at Harry with his head pressed firmly against the wall and his pupils blown wide and heavy lidded. The corner of his flushed mouth hitches up slightly. “I do hate to be cliche,” Draco says. “But I must insist you make me.” 

And that Harry does. 

Kissing Draco is better the second time, he thinks. When he’s panting into it, and the swells of his lips are tender with pale bruises, and his pulse is thrumming under Harry’s hand on his neck (he’d asked for it there, so.)

There’s also the small addition of Draco’s hand on his cock, pressing the seam of his jeans against the leaking head, so he groans and feels the vibration run down Draco’s spine. 

Oh, fuck. This is ridiculous. Malfoy. Draco. Ridiculous and brilliant. 

“Wanna make you come,” Harry parts their lips to mutter. 

“Fuck,” says Draco.

“Can I?” 

“Fuck. I mean—fuck, please.” 

Harry twists a hand down to find Draco’s and pulls the delicate wrist _up up_ and towards him. Draco whimpers softly as Harry kisses each of his knuckles, twice, and presses them to the wall beside his head. The lights have changed again; dusky pinks and yellows. They turn the grey of Draco’s eyes warm. 

The space between them empty, Harry slots his cock against Draco’s with ease. It’s—oh, fuck, it’s hard, pulling his loose trousers taught.

“Harry,” Draco moans when Harry begins to rock them together. Fabric and friction and hot against hot. “Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “So fuck—you’re so gorgeous, Draco.”

Draco cants his hips forward. Arches his back, chest warm and gasping against Harry’s, and his cock hard, damp, twitching, a beautiful curve daubed in thick fabric. Harry wants—fuck, Harry wants to see it bare, flushed and arching towards Draco’s flat abdominal plane. He wants, but he waits.

They kiss; hot and inelegant exchanges of breath, Harry bites and Draco nips, delicate skin rolled between teeth and tongues slipping to lap at collar bones and low, throaty groans running over breathless whines. 

And frot; rutting against each other feverishly, knees pushed between thighs and closer, closer, and Harry’s head falling to Draco’s shoulder at the staggering friction on his leaking cock. Shit.

“Hand,” Draco pants warmth at Harry’s ear. “Your hand.”

Harry removes the hand that’s wound delicately around Draco’s neck, but he moans and shakes his head at that, so Harry releases his hip instead. 

Draco hums, and rocks harder against Harry, clutching at Harry’s one hand with two of his own. 

“Oh,” Harry says helplessly, eyes glazing over and head thumping with lust as Draco nips at the pad of his thumb, and then, lips cocked in a ruined smile, sucks a forefinger into the silky heat of his mouth.

Lights change; orange now, and Harry grunts without meaning to, and pushes Draco against the wall by the hand on his neck, and frots harder and faster while Draco moans around his fingers. 

Two, then three, licking and sucking while he whines. Draco is thrusting his narrow hips, and Harry can _feel_ that delicious sliding warmth — smooth like vellum, wrapped around his cock. 

And Harry comes, cock taught against Draco’s, and fingers fucking languidly over his tongue. 

Slick and slurred around Harry’s fingers, “Oh, Merlin, _Harry._ " 

Harry’s hips stutter with the last of his orgasm, he strokes his softening cock against Draco’s, and squeezes his delicate throat at the join, and feels rather than sees him come.

Warmth spreading over his own — that’s spunk — that’s Draco’s spunk, and that’s Draco making those brilliant, desperate little sounds as his cock paints it over the inside of his stupid-hot, stupid- _low_ trousers. 

Draco’s hands fall from Harry’s wrist to bunch in his shirt. He mumbles, after a beat of wracking, panting breaths, and Harry takes it as his cue to slide his fingers gently from Draco’s mouth. 

“Mmph.”

“Yeah.”

“You made me come,” murmurs Draco, his voice thick and well used. “In my pants.”

Harry says, “The experience was mutual.” 

“You made me _come_ in my _pants_. _Harry—_ ” 

“Yeah. Fuck,” Harry says, nuzzling against Draco’s neck, by the hand that still rests there. Draco’s knuckles are pressed into his chest, and Harry feels the fine bridge of his nose against his flushed cheek. "It was so hot, Draco. You’re so fucking hot.”

This is where they part. They’ve come, and they’ve _discussed it_ , kind of, and now Harry pushes himself off the wall, and Draco straightens his trousers, and Harry winks or some such nonsense, and they both disappear into the crowd. 

Instead, Draco makes a soft little sound of satisfaction and Harry frays at the seams with wanting him. 

“You’re,” says Draco.

Harry mouths softly at his collar bone, melting into the warm, sated taste. “My what?”

“Nn,” Draco says, a moue of protest. “ _You are_.”

“I’m what?”

“ _Hot_. Idiot.”

Harry thinks he shouldn’t feel as pleased as he does at the compliment. Even though Draco called him an idiot. It’s a little difficult to take such insults to heart, when they’re mumbled lazily into his cheek. 

Around them, the song has changed to a non-descript, thrumming loop of drums and synths, and the drips at Harry’s hairline tingle with the cool breeze from the arch. 

“How did we get here?” 

Draco hums. He lets go of Harry’s shirt, and clasps his wrist again, pulling Harry’s hand gently from his throat. “Not sure,” he says softly. The delicate skin all across his décolletage is flushed pink, but the spot where Harry’s hand rested and pressed is warmer by degrees. 

“But I rather think there’s a more important question to be answered, don’t you?” 

“What’s that?” says Harry. Both hands free, he lets them drift of their own accord. They find Draco’s arse. Of course. 

Draco moans quietly in lieu of an answer — nipping at Harry’s jaw — as Harry grips his arse tight and hooks a thumb over the waistband of his trousers. 

Naturally, Draco’s bum is as smooth and sculpted as the rest of him. Tight and soft under Harry’s hand as he presses the pads of his fingers into the cool, bare skin, and—

“Oh, fuck,” Harry grunts. His cock is already swelling again and he congratulates it on it’s initiative. “Draco, you cheeky _fuck_.”

“What ever have I done now?” 

Draco’s arse is bare— _bare_ , under his trousers. “Not wearing pants. That’s—bloody hot, Merlin.” 

Draco scoffs. It’s languid, but it’s still a scoff. He rolls his eyes, too. “Don’t be daft, Potter. Of course I am.” 

“ _Harry_ ,” says Harry. “And if you’re wearing pants, then—” he gives the bare globes of Draco’s arse (God, it’s brilliant) an emphatic squeeze. _The fuck are they?_ , it says. 

Draco blinks for a moment, and then he says, “Oh,” and then he drops his head to Harry’s shoulder and giggles. 

Giggles. 

Harry feels vaguely vexed, and confused, and terribly charmed. “What?” he says. And then, when Draco does nothing but laugh some more, “ _What_?”

“Harry,” Draco says, lifting his head. There’s a stupid, lazy, lopsided smile on his face. “I’m wearing pants. I promise you.”

“You’re not,” Harry insists. As if he could confuse fucking cotton or flannel or _whatever_ for the silken feel of Draco’s bare, pale skin. 

“Am too.”

Harry frowns. “Then where are they?”

Draco shrugs. “Find them.”

He collapses into another fit of giggles at the gormless expression on Harry’s face, and then stops with a soft grunt of “oh” when Harry turns him around and pushes him against the stone wall. 

“Find them,” Harry mutters, fiddling blindly at Draco’s flies and pulling his trousers over the swell of his ass. “Find them. What kind of fuck-wittery—”

Oh. That kind of fuck-wittery. 

“Found them?” Draco says over his shoulder. He sounds far too smug for someone who is ass-out in the middle of a fucking club, but whatever. 

Harry clears his throat. 

Draco is, in fact, wearing pants. However, they cover about as much skin as a piece of the fucking cooking twine Molly uses to truss up her Sunday roasts. 

Harry thinks he might die (properly, this time) from the sheer amount of blood rushing into his cock. “Knickers,” Harry says in a pathetically strangled voice. He reaches out to flick the black, lacy elastic at Draco’s hip. 

“You’re wearing a _thong_.”

“You’re very perceptive,” says Draco. Who is wearing a thong. An actual pair of black, lacy knickers, like the kind Ginny used to wear, except impossibly _smaller_ and Harry couldn’t be thinking less about Ginny right now if he tried. 

“ _Knickers_. A _thong_.” 

“Have I broken you? Do I need to call Granger?”

Harry thinks he might be broken. He also thinks about sucking a cock clothed in fine lace and damp with precome into his mouth. Thin straps of elastic slid down cream coloured thighs—

“Question,” says Harry, groaning softly with the effort of pulling his gaze from Draco’s arse. “What was the question?”

“Hm? Oh. Well, you asked how we got here,” says Draco. He twists himself around so Harry can see one of his eyes (grey, heavy lidded) and the patrician construction of his profile. 

Harry nods. 

“And I thought, perhaps, where we were going might prove more interesting.”

Harry groans. He rolls his cock — hard again now — into the soft swell of Draco’s scantily clad arse. “Home,” he breathes. “We’re going home. I’m taking you home.”

“Ngh. Yes.”

“Wanna fuck you properly.”

“Do it. Harry, do it.” 

_v._

The study was an impressive effort, Harry thinks, for his current state of intoxication. Thirty percent alcohol, seventy percent Draco scrabbling to pull his trousers over his knickers as Harry ducked them under the velvet ropes strung across the arch and Apparated them to his flat. 

He shouldn’t have. Hermione would do her nut, if she knew (do-you- _know_ -how-many-people-splinch-themselves-in-drunk-Apparating-accidents-every-year- _are-you-even-listening-to-me-Harry-James-Potter_.) But Draco said do it, and Harry wants to. Wants it now, wanted it an hour ago. 

After the jarring twist, when they’re spat out a floor below the bedroom Harry was aiming for, Draco lands heavily against Harry’s chest with a winded _mmph_.

There’s some kind of faint, rolling beat surrounding them, more of a reverberated feeling through plaster and drywall from the flat next door than proper sound. Harry’s glad for it; he thinks, vaguely, nonsensically, that silence would feel rather deafening after the noise of the club. 

“Alright?”

Draco takes all of one second to collect himself before he says, “Empty. Fuck me, yes?” 

Oh. _God_. The bedroom is too far. The _desk_ in the _corner of the room_ is too far, but that’s where Harry moves anyway, crowding Draco and sucking at his neck until he’s flush against the wood. 

“My,” says Draco. “Mr—fuck, _oh_ , do that again—Mr Potter.” 

Harry sucks at the tender spot by Draco’s ear, the whiny noise it draws going straight to his groin. 

“Gonna—mm, fuck me over your desk?” 

When Harry removes his mouth, the skin is red and purple and his lips are slick with spit. “Would you like that?” 

Draco’s tongue traces his bottom lip. “If you don’t do it right now,” he says, “I may have to hex you a bit.”

“Don’t do that." 

“Then _fuck me_.”

It doesn’t seem altogether fair to Harry, that Draco can simply say words like that with a voice _like that,_ and make him go veritably liquid with want. 

Harry turns Draco at the hips, hears the thunk of his palms bracing on the wood as he tugs Draco’s trousers to pool around his ankles. 

And there’s—mm. There it is. 

The thing is; Harry knows some blokes wear knickers. He’s seen them before. Silk that rides up over the waistbands of jeans when they lean against the bar. Lace, frills, bows that you can see through sheer fabric. And Harry has always thought, _hm, that’s hot,_ and then continued to function like a regular fucking person. 

Maybe it’s because it’s so ridiculously skimpy. Or because Draco’s arse is a particularly impressive specimen. But no. Harry knows what it is. It’s that it’s Malfoy — that’s why he drops to his knees and stares like an—

“Imbecile. What are you doing back there?”

“Looking,” Harry says. 

“Well desist,” Draco snaps. “I want to be _fucked_. You know, with a _cock_.” He wiggles his arse around impatiently. 

“Right,” Harry says absently. “A cock.”

His mouth moves much without his permission — he meant to look, he really did — but suddenly his tongue is prodding at Draco’s hole through the lace stretched across it, and Draco’s whines of protest become _oh_ ’s of surprise and then, very quickly, whines of abject pleasure. 

The lace is soft and pliant — it moulds around Harry’s tongue as he pushes further. 

“ _Excuse_ you!”

“You look fucking edible in these,” Harry murmurs. “Can’t resist.”

Draco moans, his hips shift back, pushing further against Harry’s mouth, and he’s, God, he’s collapsed to his front on the desk, and his hands are reaching back and—

Draco is holding himself open, squirming and whining, so Harry can fuck him open with his tongue. Through his knickers. Over a desk. 

Harry wonders when he became such a deviant. Then he laces his fingers over Draco’s, and tongues determinately at his rim.

Draco is rutting softly, rubbing his cock against the wood of Harry’s (largely unused) desk and fucking himself back on Harry’s tongue, babbling for—

“more, Harry, more, _fuck_.”

And—

“harder, Harry. _Gods_ , fuck me open.” 

(Harry would tell Draco he’s got a filthy mouth, but he’s not really in any place to talk.)

When Draco makes a sound that’s more like a squeal than anything else Harry’s ever heard, and writhes and wriggles like a mad thing, Harry groans, and Draco’s thighs tremble, and Harry pushes himself to his feet, all coltish and dizzy, and grabs Draco by the hips. 

Draco, who’s babbling and begging and needs—

“to be filled. Need you in me. Wanna come — ah, _please_ — on your cock.”

Draco’s who’s still wearing that obscene triangle of black lace, and who is grinding desperately into Harry’s cock. Pleas of “put it in me, get it in me, want it now.” 

Harry wants to be inside, he simply wants until he’s shaking with it, until he pushes the flimsy fabric of Draco’s knickers to the side instead of taking them off and fucks into him. 

Draco cries out in splintering, wanton relief, twisting back already, wanting more already. 

He’s marmoreal, he is, and — “ _yess_ ,” Draco hisses, when Harry seats himself further — and beautiful, and if his mouth around Harry’s fingers was hot and tight and velvet, then his arse is a fucking vice laid with silk, clutching impossibly tighter. 

“So good, fuck, Draco,” Harry moans, and Draco mewls desperately in response. Harry feels cleaved in two (which is er, rather ironic, he supposes) at the vulnerability of the sound, the marble beauty of Draco’s naked, pliant form, bent over before him. When his hip bones are flush to Draco’s arse, he starts to thrust. Draco wants it—

“harder, deeper, more, Harry _please_ —”

—so Harry splays one hand over the graceful dip of his spine, arcing and vaulting as he fucks himself back onto Harry’s cock, and gives it to him with graceless abandon. 

“Yes, yes, Harry, fuck me, yes.”

“So good. So — _oh_ — so fucking good.” Harry leans over, skin sliding over sweaty skin, and pulls Draco up against his chest.

Draco keens, winds his arms blindly around Harry’s neck. It doesn’t escape Harry that this is where they started, almost exactly — Draco pressed flush and writhing, the blades of his angular shoulders jabbing at Harry’s chest with every deliberate grind of his hips. 

Draco says, “ _Harry_ ,” and then his swollen mouth goes slack and he moans one, continuous note so anguished Harry knows he must be hitting Draco’s prostate. Harry’s hands are — where are they — hips, then cock, scant lace, the taught soft of Draco’s belly, thumbing over it, and stroking his cock again. 

“Come.” Harry says, rough and ground out between breaths. “Know you want to—

“—fucking absurd, oh, _God_ —”

“—l’me make you feel, _fuck_ , good. Come for me.” 

Draco does it in messy spurts. Over the plane of his abdomen (pale, blushing with bruises from being fucked hard into Harry’s desk), and the aforementioned desk itself. The sounds he makes are, Harry thinks, ludicrous. Ridiculous. Fucking criminal. 

He’s whining. Babbling. Something like “fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m _dying_ ” and moaning like he really is. 

When Harry comes, things happen in flashes. He’s coming, and Draco’s still making those sounds. He’s coming, and Draco’s twisting himself around on his cock to kiss his top lip, bite his bottom, wet and messy. He’s coming, and the dregs of Draco’s eyeliner are smeared over his cheekbones. He’s coming, oh, fuck, he’s _blind_ with it, and Draco is clenching around him, milking the last of it from his flagging cock. 

When Harry stops coming, Draco says, “mm.”

“Mm,” Harry agrees. He pulls out gently — “ _ah_ , _”_ Draco says — holding Draco to him with a hand splayed across his chest. 

“You alright?”

Draco hums softly. “Quite.”

Draco is not _quite alright_. He buckles at the knees as soon as Harry lets go of him.

“Ouch,” Draco murmurs. Harry snorts. 

“Stop it,” Draco complains.

“Come here.” Harry hooks his hands under Draco’s arms so he can arrange him against the desk, and then sits down in front of him. 

“I think,” he says, after a moment of serious contemplation, “that that was the best fuck I’ve ever had.” 

Draco scoffs. His head lolls against the desk, legs bent at the knees, arms laying boneless at his sides. “You exaggerate.”

“No I don’t,” Harry says. Draco’s ankle is very close to his foot. He bridges the distance cautiously. 

Draco sighs. He draws his legs together, trapping Harry’s ankle between his own two. “No, you don’t.” 

After a moment, Draco looks down at himself with a frown. 

“Where,” he says. Licks his lips. “Where the fuck are our clothes?”

Oh. Fuck. “Whoops,” Harry says. 

Draco’s eyes, as fucked out and drapey as the rest of him, widen. “You didn’t.”

Harry bites his lip. “Might’ve.”

“Harry Potter. Can’t just have a whacking cock, you’ve got to go around performing wandless, wordless spells without even realising. Because you’re horny, nonetheless.” Draco squeezes his ankle (it’s supposed to be scolding, probably.) “Ridiculous behaviour.” 

“Sorry?” Harry tries. And then smiles, because—

“You said I’ve got a big cock.”

“You’re a child.”

“Big cock, though.”

Ankle squeeze. Ouch. 

“I notice you left these on,” hums Draco. He’s thumbing the elastic of his knickers absently. “Your magical subconscious is just as much of a deviant as you are.”

His eyes are closed, and he looks horribly, perfectly debauched; swollen lips, slick with sweat and messy with glitter, black lace and come splattered along the v of his abdomen. 

“I’m not the one wearing them,” Harry points out. 

“Of course not, Potter,” Draco says. “You haven’t the arse for it.” 

Harry makes a disgruntled noise. He’s been told he has a very nice arse (on more than one occasion), thankyouverymuch. 

Draco looks vaguely amused at Harry's pique, then pushes himself up from the ground. “Rather peckish” he says. And then, while turning for the door on shaky legs, “Do you have any digestives? Chocolate covered ones?”

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://dracoladon.tumblr.com/)


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